


A Break in the Soul

by dearxalchemist



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Mission Fic, Mutual Pining, OT3 Dynamics, Post-Canon, Slight Humor, Slow Burn, canon violence, gallya
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-06-03 14:03:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6613462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearxalchemist/pseuds/dearxalchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reaching up, the small mechanic runs her hands through her hair, messing up her bangs as she smudges more grease up along her forehead from her dirty palm and Illya chases it with the rag. He’s careful with her, so very carefully like she is made from thin pieces of glass, constructed just to cut him on all her rough edges. They've danced this dance before, it's all near hits and misses.  Just when they're starting to find their pace, the world decides to fall apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redbrunja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/gifts).



Under the hood of a car she is a different person. Her fingernails are chipped and there is dark smudges along her knuckles as she dips her fingers further down into the carburetor. Gaby stands on the tips of her toes, her body pressed to the grill of the car and her whole arm is practically swallowed whole by the open hood. Her lips are pressed into a tight line and her eyes shine with determination as she pulls the first coil out. The sound of metal on metal echoes in the garage along with the faint sound of the radio humming against the far side of the wall. In the garage she is a whole different being, Illya has noted this much. When they’re not on missions, when they’re preparing for something new altogether, Gaby takes off. She doesn’t linger around the safe houses or stay even in her own apartment. No, she finds her way to the U.N.C.L.E. garage and tinkers away until all her frustrations are gone. No one bothers her and if they did, it would only take one swing of a heavy wrench for them to not make that mistake again. 

The first time he joins her in the garage, she only asks two things of him. One is not to talk and two is not to touch her radio dial. He nods and cracks open a novel. One with a black cover and cyrillic written on the cover in golden letters, it fits perfectly in his palms and he barely makes a sound and barely turns a page. His blue eyes are perfectly trained on the pages but he’s watching Gaby. He watches her work diligently and tries not to make any comments or sounds. She lets him sit in the corner of her garage, next to a small lamp. Illya’s patience is test when she burns her fingers on the hot engine he watches her push it in her mouth, uncaring about the engine grease. He unfolds his legs ready to put his book down and move to help her, but she simply moves on. Grabbing a small dirty rag from her belt loop she wraps the fabric around hand and goes right back to work.

Yes, under the hood she is a different person, strong and resilient. Gaby’s feet scuffed along the edge of the car as she moves for her tool box. Leaning inside she pulls out a pair of vice grips and moves back to the car. This goes on for hours. He listens as she tinkers around under the hood and then shuffles towards the driver’s seat. After another moment he hears the engine roar to life and then it dies as quickly as it starts. There’s a string of German curses and Illya’s lips pull up in the smallest of smiles before he pulls his book up a little higher, turning the page. Eventually she gives up and cleans up her tools, wiping her dirty hands on her coveralls while Illya dog ears a page in the book and gets up to stretch his long legs. His joints creak under his weight as he tucks the book back into his jacket pocket and moves his way towards the small woman who is still muttering curses under her breath.

“Come on Chop Shop Girl,” His voice is deep and heavily accented, close to the shell of her ear as he moves up behind her. Gaby’s back brushes along his chest and she turns in her dark blue coveralls, narrowing her brown eyes up at him with a sort of disinterest crossing her face. She doesn’t like to be told when to give up. In the garage she is a problem solver, not someone who easily walks away, but it’s late and he knows she must be hungry. Her voice is sharp and tone is one of irritation as she grinds her teeth with her jaw clenched tightly shut.

“Fine,” She practically folds, crossing her arms tightly across her chest and stalking off. Her shoes practically stamp along the garage floor, splashing into an oil puddle. Gaby tracks a mess everywhere she goes. Trailing from the garage to the safe house. She has oil on her shoes and her coveralls once blue were dark and dirty, nearly a black color. The two of them move back into the safe house where Solo has food on the stove. The whole place is warm and smells amazing, Illya’s mouth waters as he moves into the kitchen and before Gaby can reach over the stove to grab a piece of food from the hot stove, Napoleon strikes her hand. He uses the edge of the spatula, cutting the woman a sharp look.

“Wash up,” He waves the spatula at her at her menacingly and she twists her lips up into a bit of a scowl. Her brows furrow up at him and she moves away from the sink, her fingers curling into uniformed fists, but before she can take a swing at the American, Illya is there, pulling her away. He’s got a finger in one of her belt loops and he’s pulling her back. Gaby’s feet shuffle backwards with Illya’s tugging and she mutters another string of curse words. He guides her back out of the kitchen of the safe house, down along the hallway. She’s filthy and lets him lead the way to the master bathroom. He somehow manages to get her in the bathroom without her touching the walls and turns on the warm water for the sink, nudging her hands under the water before he grabs a spare washcloth from the linen closet. Gaby obliges him, she scrubs at her broken nails in the sink, moving her fingers aside as he leans over her shoulder and lets him wet the rag. Without warning he attacks her face with the fabric. He scrubs at her cheek and Gaby throws up her wet hands, splashing him with the water.

“Illya!” She yells out his name, unhappy with his sudden attack on her face but her anger quickly melts into a laugh as he lets out a soft ‘tsk’ noise over her appearance. Her wet fingers grip on his wrists and he backs her up to the door. The water in the sink is still running carelessly as he runs the washcloth over her cheek and down the column of her throat. He scrubs the engine grease away and watches as she squirms back, head hitting the door gently. The bandana on her head is falling back, exposing her tangled mess of dark hair and her lips are twisting into a grin as his hands pause at the edge of her coveralls, “Well?” She muses when his fingers tremble. They stop there on her collarbone.

Gaby’s wet hands pull away from his wrists, leaving behind smudges of leftover grease. The distinct smell of oil and exhaust permeates the bathroom, but all Gaby can smell is the the soft scent of leather and aftershave that is Illya. Edging a step forward, she makes his hand slip down, the warm rag soaking into the front of her navy blue coveralls. The sudden movement throws him off kilter. 

The tall Russian man before her freezes, his fingers flex against the edge of the warm wash cloth and her coverall. She watches the color rise along his face and the way his brows go up at her words. He clears his throat and pulls the rag away, leaving her there to blow out a soft sigh. The frustration is evident on her face, they are another near hit and miss together. It’s been the same since Rome. They get closer and closer each day, darting around one another, lips nearly touching and each time they pull away. Something happens, someone walks in, or Waverly calls with their next mission. Reaching up, the small mechanic runs her hands through her hair, messing up her bangs as she smudges more grease up along her forehead from her dirty palm and Illya chases it with the rag. He’s careful with her, so very carefully like she is made from thin pieces of glass, constructed just to cut him on all her rough edges. 

Before he can pull his hand away she grabs onto his wrist again. Wrapping her fingers tightly around his hand she tugs him forward. It doesn’t take much to make him move. It’s all instinct with the Russian man, she pulls, he follows and when she raises up on the tips of her toes, he leans his head in. Except this time, Gaby doesn’t let the air between them linger. She takes what she wants then and there, leaning up and pressing her mouth to his. The moment their mouths meet, it’s like striking an electrical current. Gaby’s nerves are on fire and kissing him is all she can think about. Her thoughts all come to a screeching halt when he kisses her back. She half expected him to pull away, act flustered, and gentleman-like. Only he doesn’t, he kisses her back. He kisses her back, dropping the wet rag onto the floor with a loud sloshing noise. His palm slides up her clean cheek and he pulls her up closer. Gaby’s toes strain against the floor, pushing herself up to meet him and before she loses balance, he has his other hand around her waist. He doesn’t care about her dirty coveralls pressing over his clean clothes. He only pulls her in closer, wanting to feel more of her pressed against him. 

He pulls her up and Gaby’s toes are no longer touching the floor. Her mouth is perfectly fitted against his and he lets out a soft sigh against her. Her lips are soft unlike her calloused fingers wrapped around the back of his neck, and her tongue swipes along his bottom lip and just like that the expert KGB agent is reduced to nothing but a helpless sigh. A sigh in which gives Gaby the opportune moment to invade. Her tongue touches his and his hand tightens in her coveralls, bunching up the fabric and he’s lost in the feel of her. She is softer than she looks pressed into his chest, she is warm and soft, and as he backs her up to the door, that’s as far as he can allow himself to go. His mouth breaks away from hers and she’s panting softly. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are closed tightly, like she’s dreaming. 

He watches her tongue dart over her lower lip and he wants to chase it. He wants to lean back in and claim her lips all over again. Illya’s thumb moves along the edge of her cheek, down to her lips where he gently smoothes the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. She is breathtaking against him and he has the audacity to wonder just how beautiful she will look under the sheets of their borrowed beds. She nips at his thumb and Illya strokes his fingers down her cheek, only to lean back in and kiss her again. Gaby meets him this time, leaning back against the bathroom door and pulling him in with her hands slipping away from his neck and down into his turtleneck. She digs her fingers into the fabric, wrinkling it under her palms as she pulls him in. Her hips press over his and he lets his hand slide down to the small of her back. She fits so perfectly against the front of him that he wonders why he’s been so hesitant after all this time. His thoughts are only on Gaby, his fingers are tracing lines across the dirty coveralls and he’s so lost he almost misses the sharp tapping on the door.

Napoleon is knocking.

The sink is still running.

Gaby pulls away first and gasps softly, cheeks red. 

Illya is lost in a sea of emotions and he can’t figure out what to do just yet. He doesn’t want to pull away but Gaby is already doing that for him. She yells something at the door and moves her hands under the water before turning off the sink. With quick movements she has the door open and she’s flicking water in Napoleon’s impatient face. He’s been muttering something about dinner but stops when his blue eyes swing up to Illya’s face. The American can see it all. Illya can deny it all he wants but Napoleon’s lips are curling up and his brows both raise in their direction as Gaby sweeps around him. 

“Well Peril, I didn’t think you had it in you.” Napoleon drawls out slowly as his smile grows. Illya instantly scoffs and reaches up, rubbing the back of his hand across his lips as if he could wipe away any evidence of Gaby being there. 

“Is none of your business, Cowboy.” Illya scowls, his accent harsh on his words as he cuts the light out in the bathroom, extinguishing any conversation on the matter and pushing past the American. By the time Napoleon and Illya make it to the kitchen, Gaby has already started eating but that isn’t what has their attention. She’s on the phone, talking low and there’s a telegram sitting among the food. It’s written in code and she’s speaking in a hushed tone before her brown eyes cut up to the two of them in the doorway. Gaby leans back against the wall and Illya fights the urge to let his eyes trace her silhouette as her finger curls in the cord of the telephone. After another moment or two she speaks professionally into the receiver. 

“Understood,” She nods against the phone as if the person on the other end can see her. Her smile from the bathroom is no more. It’s replaced with something much more serious as she hangs up the phone and points at the coordinates on the telegram. No one has to say much of anything, the three of them are being summoned for a mission. Gaby’s smile doesn’t come back. Instead she takes a dinner roll off of Solo’s beautiful dinner table and heads back for the garage. Missions are not easy on the woman, but she will not complain because anything is better than being back behind the Iron Curtain.


	2. Chapter 2

The sound of metal on metal is excruciatingly loud as Gaby bangs harder on the fitted end of the engine. She’s prying apart the air-intake box with no gentle grace, stripping away at the metal. She’s damaging it all, unable to control the anger that is thrumming across her nerves. The phone call was hours ago and she can’t sleep now. It’s near two in the morning but she’s wide awake as insomnia sinks in, reminding her that in a few short hours she is to board a plane to Berlin. U.N.C.L.E. has been called in for help over the wall. The same wall Gaby had crossed over with her arms wound tightly around Solo’s chest as she clung to him for a shot at a better life. Returning was never an option she wanted to take. She could still hear herself in Rome, pacing around the hotel room. The constant repetition of her words, _‘I won’t go back, I won’t go back.’_ Now she would have to. It was all apart of this new life. She lead the life of a spy now and even though she was still relatively new, it didn’t mean things were handed to her. She still had a lot to work on. Only she couldn’t focus on that now. Her mind was set on the engine before her and she struck the metal again, listening as the sound echoed across the garage. She clenched her jaw tightly and struck again, her grip tightening on the wrench, fingers vibrating with the contact. Her whole arm ached as she struck again and again.

She didn’t stop until the metal piece broke off and fell under the car, rolling against the stained concrete floor with a hollow sound. The first sob clawed it’s way out of her mouth and Gaby bent over the hood of the car, letting the engine swallow her sounds before her knees knocked together and slowly she sank down to the floor. Her lips still burned from the kiss. Her grease covered fingers moved up along her lips, tracing the curve of her bottom lip as she sat down, her back pressed against the front wheel of the car. The rubber of the tire pulled along the edge of her coveralls but Gaby didn’t pay it any mind as she pulled her knees up in front of her chest, pressing her cheek along the tops of them. Crying would get her nowhere. Tomorrow she would still have to get on the plane. She would still have to assume a new identity and she would have to face the chance of going over the wall again. 

Gaby turned her cheek over, pressing it into the top of her knees tightly as she closed her brown eyes, sucking in a deep breath. Her chest ached and part of her wanted to call Waverly, demand a new mission, but that wouldn’t be an option. Instead, she pushed away the ache of sleep and forced herself to move. Grabbing the small rolling board, she laid on her back and pushed herself under the car to retrieve the broken manifold. Under the car Gaby was a different person. There was no room for tears or self-pity when working on the machine above her. She would do her job to fix the car and then she would do her job tomorrow as Agent Teller.

\---------------

“You’re going to wear a hole right into the floor, Peril.” Solo drawled out his words carefully, slowly looking over the edge of his London paper to his Russian comrade. For the past hour he had done nothing but pace. The telegram had started in his hand, coordinates for East Berlin and halfway through his pacing, it ended up crumpled on the ground. It was now ripped and smudged from his shoes, “Which is a shame since those shoes are rather nice.”

Illya’s pacing slows just a bit before he altogether stops, sliding himself down into a seat at the table. The kitchen was clean now. The faint scent of dinner still lingering in the air while Solo turns the page of the paper. It’s the only sound in the safe house, but if Illya holds his breath and listens close enough, he can hear the faint sound of metal on metal as Gaby tinkers away in the garage. He thought about following her hours ago, but Solo had stopped him. A hand on his elbow and a shake of his head, urging the Russian man to sit and eat, while she went to her safe haven. 

Their mission was taking them to East Berlin. They would have to cross the wall. The same one Solo had sprung her from nearly a year ago with Illya hot on their trail, determined to get the Teller woman back to the KGB and tortured for information on her birth father. Illya scowled, his blue eyes dragging up from the telegram on the floor to his partner’s hands on the edges of the newspaper. His shoulders sagged a bit and he let his back hit the chair with a soft thud, frustration evident across his brows as Solo turned another page. The silence rang between them and the banging in the garage picked up once more. Gaby had paused for only a moment before getting right back to work. He fought the urge to go retrieve the small mechanic and take her to bed. The clock above the stove ticked past the two and he felt exhaustion sinking into his bones. 

“Berlin is not safe for her.” Illya finally spoke, tearing his gaze away from the small black and white clock on the wall. He eyed the newspaper carefully and then sniffed softly as if uncaring whether or not this was good for any of them. Berlin was hot territory. American’s didn’t venture in and people rarely ventured out. Napoleon shifted in his chair, bending the top of the paper down to look at his comrade. 

“It’s not safe for any of us.” He added but he cleared his throat, “But especially for her.” 

Illya nodded and Solo finally put the paper down, smoothing his fingers over the thin paper, letting the ink smudge under his hands, “She should not go.” Illya adds in a tone that sounds almost commanding, like a final ruling in a debate. Napoleon raises both eyebrows and shakes his dark head, a soft laugh leaving her lips.

“You know we don’t have control over that. We’re like chess pieces, Peril,” Napoleon drums his fingers along the newspaper, listening to the soft noise as he licked over his bottom lip. “They move us around in certain places for certain reasons. Honestly, all that time at the top of the KGB’s list and you still haven’t quite figured out how the game works.” 

Illya scoffs crossing his arms across his dark turtleneck. His blond head is tilted back proudly and he doesn’t bother hiding the pride in his voice as he cuts his gaze to Solo, “I know how to play chess.” 

“Chess yes, but this is much bigger than some chess game. This is politics, my friend, and politics are dirty. They need Gaby over that wall for something. I don’t think Waverly would just dump her back over the wall and be done with her. No, he likes his little agent too much for that.” Napoleon speculates with a proud tone before a yawn pulls at his pretty face. It’s well past time to sleep for all of them but Illya knows Gaby will be up all night and Solo will sleep light. None of them want dawn to come.

Eventually the two men go their separate routes. Napoleon to his room and Illya to his own, pausing at the door to Gaby’s bedroom. Her door is open, bed is messy. She sleeps like a child across the blankets with sheets tangled in her tan legs, but right now her room is empty. The sound of an engine revving in the garage is all he hears of her and he passes her room, pushing all thoughts of their kiss aside as he prepares for the morning.

\---------------

Gaby holds the manila folder in her freshly washed hands. Her nails are filed down, painted a pale pink with a soft shine. Today she looks like no mechanic ever would. Her hair is curled and pinned behind her ears with her bangs swept off to the side. Her earrings catch the light on the plane, pale pink gemstones to go with the white and pink dress that is modern couture. It hugs her in the hips, making her have a slight hourglass figure and contrasts beautifully against her bronze skin. The envelope in her hand is thick with papers. New papers with new ID’s clipped to the insides of them. Her lips are twisted in a soft frown as she glances over the edge of her envelop to Illya sitting across from her on the private plane. This time around, she is married to her British physicist husband, played by her American comrade. He’s being sent over the wall for purposes to do with a new type of warfare. Illya’s ring is pulled off of her finger by Solo’s thieving ones and a gaudy gold ring takes it’s place. They are newlyweds with a story so sweet that Gaby feels the cavities setting in on her teeth. The more she reads the file, the more she wants to throw up. Going back to Berlin is enough to put her on edge, but now she is to be married to Solo and not Illya.

Illya glances over the top of his own folder and his gaze catches hers. Gaby can still feel his mouth pressed over hers. She felt it all night long. The soft pressure of his lips on hers, that jolt of electricity. Her nervousness flutters and the plane hits an air pocket, causing a slight rumble in the seats. The spell between the Russian man and German woman is broken. Illya goes back to his file and Gaby sinks back into her seat, reaching over to take back her fake pearl ring. Napoleon hands it over and she drops it carefully in the leather clutch wedged between them in the seat. 

“I don’t get it.” Gaby finally huffs out as Illya closes his folder and crosses his arms. He’s all professional with his back straight and legs crossed, eyebrows raised in her direction. 

“What isn’t to get darling?” Napoleon smiles with a false Brittish accent already lacing his words. Gaby tries not to wrinkle her nose in disdain but fails miserably. 

“Why do I always have to play the doting wife?” Her words are slightly strained but she doesn’t fool anyone with her words. She wants to know why she is playing Solo’s wife and not Illya’s. The more she thumbs through her folder, the more questions she has. For this mission, Solo needs a translator even though the man speaks perfect German, and Gaby will be his translator. The only way to get her over the wall is with a fake marriage. But, Illya… Illya’s job isn’t listed anywhere in her folder. 

“Because I can’t very well be married to Peril.” Napoleon all but laughs as he lets his dark head fall back against the seat, “They’ll string all three of us up on the wall for the firing squad.” Solo makes a finger gun and then pretends to fire it off before letting his hands fall into his lap, “And Peril’s mission is behind the scenes. I reckon they’re going to make him intelligence on this one. Intelligence is just a fancy word for thief. He’s going to be the thief, so you are going to be the doting wife.” 

His voice softens and Gaby can only nod before he leans over and his lips press to her temple. It’s a soft kiss for reassurance. Something to calm the shaking in her bones. The gesture is not lost on Illya but she watches the way his fingers tighten into fists across from them and then slowly ease up as Solo pulls away. He puts his arm around her shoulders and pulls her in a bit, shaking her softly, “Cheer up Gabs, being married to me won’t be so bad.”

“No, you’ll only flirt with anything with legs and leave me to wonder where oh where my husband is in the early hours of the morning.” Gaby teases him and his womanizing ways as she gently reaches up to poke at his pale cheek. Napoleon rolls his eyes and turns his head away from her poking.

The dark haired man lets out a very American proclamation of love as he clasps a hand to his chest, fingers smoothing over his navy blue tie, “I promise to be faithful.” 

“Liar,” Illya scoffs and Gaby erupts into a fit of giggles. Her nervousness slowly melts away as Solo shoots daggers in Illya’s direction and the Russian man wears a smug smirk of satisfaction. The tension on the plane was once tight but now eases up as Gaby lets her fingers dip down into her leather clutch and rub gently over the fake pearl ring.

\---------------

The three of them split up when they arrive in West Berlin. Illya takes a seperate car to a different entrance into East Berlin while Gaby and Napoleon are met by a German man in a boring tweed suit and greasy hair. The weather in Berlin is cloudy and Gaby suppresses a shiver as her heels click down against the tarmac. The wind blows her pale pink hat back as she tilts her head up. Napoleon has his hand on the small of her back and he’s guiding her forward. He’s making sure she takes each step slowly, making sure she doesn’t bolt back for the plane for the safety of London and her garage. The man across from them is named Rolf Holger and he is the lead scientist for the Soviet’s experimental warfare team. Only to Gaby, the man looks much more like a politician than a scientist. Something about the man and the way his dark eyes cut to hers makes her stomach churn and she presses back into Solo’s hand softly. Her partner’s hand flexes and he reminds her with a soft pat that he’s not going to let anyone keep her behind the wall.

Gaby plays her role wonderfully as Rolf introduces himself in German. She pretends that her husband can’t understand a lick of the language, laughing softly as she translates it into English for him. For a woman found inside of an East German garage, she is a remarkable spy. Her hand slips into Rolf’s and she introduces herself and the man exclaims his love of her native language spoken so well from such a pretty woman and Gaby pretends to become a flustered mess. The man is enamoured by her and Solo can’t help but admire her when she steps forward, looping her arm through Rolf’s as they move for a town car parked across the tarmac ready to take them into the proverbial lion’s den. 

Gaby wants to throw herself from the car as the wall comes into view.

Her hand tightens on the seat of the car and Solo covers her hand with his, hiding her white knuckles from Holger’s view. It takes every ounce of her self control not to let her teeth chatter when they pull through the gate. They’re waved right on through, passing the security checkpoint with ease. The town car picks up speed, passing by pieces of her past. She pretends to be a tourist from West Berlin, looking at all the East has to offer but the truth is, she can barely stand to look at it all. Too many memories of lying awake in the dead of night, waiting and listening for the police to come, to raid in on their homes -- tearing them apart for contraband. Too many nights spent wide awake with a bag packed by the window, begging for her to escape. Begging for her to scale the wall and race to freedom. 

She always told herself she would get out and when she did, she would never come back.

Oh how things had changed. 

Gaby is so lost in her thoughts, it’s not until Solo clears his throat that Gaby blinks away from the window. Her lips form a soft sigh of confusion as Solo nudges her gently, “Darling could you please tell Mr. Holger here that we’re only to be here for a few days. I want to tour their facility before I make any decisions on whether or not we should stay for the project.” 

Solo smooths the words on thick, pretending to be the loving husband as Holger cuts his gaze to Gaby again. That familiar feeling of uneasiness sinks back in as she presses her knees together, turning her hand under Solo’s and letting her fingers lace with his own. Masking her distaste, she repeats Solo’s words in her native tongue, letting the words drip from her lips with careful ease as she acts like a responsible wife, ready to aid her husband at a moment’s notice. Rolf practically devours her words and Gaby resists the urge to throw in a few insults as she settles back into her seat, listening to the sound of the tires on the broken road that takes them further and further into the depths of her own personal Hell.

\---------------

Illya is greeted by the KGB when he steps through the East Berlin border station. They nod at him and clasp his hand proudly as if happy to welcome him back to the Iron Curtain. They tell him over and over again, he’s back on the right side. Their grips are tight, almost bruising but so are Illya’s own hands. He squeezes theirs back, a silent threat that he is still strong despite being apart of the international team. His folder on the plane was much different from his partners. He was to reconvene with his old comrades and commit treason.

His mission had simply said to gather intelligence but Illya knew better. They wanted him to spy on his own country -- feed information back to U.N.C.L.E. on the weapons being concocted on the other side of the wall. No doubt his old comrades will be watching his every move, like they know he is about to play a dangerous game. Moving pieces for both teams would be difficult. The only thing that made matters worse was watching the town car go by, with Gaby’s pale pink form sitting next to the back window. He watched her drive through before a hand clamped down hard over his shoulder. Russian words fell over his ears and it took him a moment to gather himself back up. His old handler is standing behind him, dressed in a crisp suit with the smell of cheap aftershave filling the air around him. Illya doesn’t hesitate in turning his head towards his handler and nodding his head curtly. 

He is to suit back up in his uniform and join them at the facility for a tour of the latest way to win the war and paint the map red again, but first he’s pulled aside taken back into a room attached to the guard post at the wall. The familiar sense of dread fills his stomach and the ex-agent already knows what is coming for him when he steps through the gray door.

\---------------

Their hotel room is dismal. It is small and smells damp, not to mention everything is a dull color. There is no art on the walls, no attempt to brighten the hotel room up in the slightest. There is only one bed and a bottle of Russian vodka on the bar-cart with a red ribbon wrapped around it, congratulating the great mind of Richard Grant on his wedding to Gabriella, who is less than happy about the gift. Solo practically twirls the small card in his talented fingers and tucks into his pocket for ‘sentimental’ reasons. Or at least, that's what he tells her when she rolls her eyes and blows out a soft sigh.

“You are sleeping on the couch, Dick” Gaby informs him using a shortened version of his cover name to catch his attention as she moves for the left side of the bed. She gathers up the two pathetic pillows for him and practically stamps her way to the couch with them. 

“Now, darling,” Napoleon muses watching her dump the flat pillows on the small couch knowing good and well he would never fit, but if that’s where Gaby wanted him then that would be where he went. He shrugs out of his crisp navy blue jacket and lets it lay on the end of the bed as his fingers move for his cufflinks, “That’s no way to treat your new husband, even if I do snore.” 

“My husband is barely a husband at all.” She clicks her tongue in a chiding manner, unimpressed by his overly charming tone, “He is also terrible at picking out rings.” She adds teasing him as she holds up her left hand, wiggling her fingers lightly. The gold ring is heavy compared to Illya’s and it’s not as pretty. It is very bulky and bright, the glass on it is too heavy with too many rhinestones decorating it. It’s practically an eyesore that screams American made. 

“That ring was my grandmothers.” 

“No it wasn’t.” 

“You’re right, it wasn’t. It’s still a very nice ring though.” Solo corrects as he pushes his sleeves up his arms moving to the windows of their hotel room. Their room faces another hotel where no doubt someone is listening in on them, someone is probably spying too. Napoleon knows this game, he has been in the CIA long enough to be paranoid but careful enough to not let it show. Moving his hands up, he pulls on the curtains with soft tugs and drops them, covering the windows to keep the prying eyes and dull grey skies out. 

They sweep the room together and find multiple bugs. 

They leave the bugs in their places.

If they destroyed them or moved them, someone would be onto their plan and that would blow the mission. Instead they talk in code, overly lovingly to one another. Gaby’s voice is higher than normal as she pretends to marvel at her husband’s physique all while Solo begins taking out several layers within his suitcase, unmasking several guns and silencers. 

“Darling you will look simply wonderful tomorrow, don’t fret.” Napoleon speaks loud so all the bugs can hear as he takes out several black strips of fabric for Gaby to see. They’re meant to go under her dress tomorrow so she can separate herself and steal any loose information while Solo tours the facilities, tucking papers under her dress and into the spandex strips for safe keeping. 

Gaby nods to Napoleon and blows out a soft sigh, “Pour me a drink, Dick.” 

“You like that name too much.” Solo huffs but he moves across the room for the vodka and pours her a hefty amount. The clear liquid splashes over his knuckles as he grabs the tumbler and brings it to her. Gaby’s standing by the window, her fingers are on the curtains where she has them pushed just barely an inch to the right. Her brown eyes are sweeping over the gray city, the same one she said she’d never be back to. She doesn’t even look at him when he presses the alcohol into her hand, she just takes it and knocks it back like it’s nothing more than water. The liquid burns across the back of her throat, reminding her good and well that she is alive. 

“It suits you well,” She breathes over the edge of the glass before taking the last bit of clear liquid and holding it in her mouth before swallowing. Gaby welcomes the burn and pushes the glass back into her doting husband’s hands before she lets go of the curtain, “I want to go home.” 

Her voice is a soft whisper he almost misses, but Solo catches her words and holds them tight as he nods, “We will.”

\---------------

There is hot blood slipping down the front of Illya’s face and he barely has a chance to suck in a deep breath of air before another set of knuckles crashes into his nose. The cartilage cracks, breaks, and then there’s a flood of pain. His eyes sting with the threat of tears but he holds back. The KGB is testing him. His fellow officers are testing to see if U.N.C.L.E. has made him weak. If his two partners have given him soft bones. He takes every blow and keeps coming back for more. The torture slows and then all together stops. The taste of copper is thick on the back of his tongue and Illya turns his head up, lips ticking up as he holds back the wave of anger that’s threatening to shine through. He wants to break his restraints and tear the men before him apart.

They cut his ties and when he stands the world is blurry, dizzying almost from the blood loss. He reaches up and gently wipes the blood away from his lips, trying not to touch his nose. His face is broken and the pain is burning across his cheeks but he manages to nod to his superiors. Illya is given a fresh uniform and nothing much more than a set of harsh orders from Oleg himself. He is to greet his comrades from U.N.C.L.E. and silence them.

**Author's Note:**

> I was talking with a fellow writer @redbrunja (which you should all go read, "We Russians Have Nothing But Our Winters" ) about how Gaby is probably a completely different person under the hood of a car where she knows the in's and out's of her job, unlike her life on the field and thus spawned this little writing piece. I'm actually going to expand on this and turn it into a nice slow burning fic. So in a way this is dedicated to her. Enjoy!


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